


The Senior and his Sophomore

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Love, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Protective John, Teen Romance, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson transfers to Monroe School for Boys his senior year only to meet a brilliant, beautiful boy named Sherlock in need of protection. Only John knows his need to protect is a bit more than neighborly concern. JohnLock. TeenLock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John knew it wouldn’t be easy starting over at a new boarding school, not his senior year, but he was supposed to feel honored to have been admitted to the prestigious Monroe School for Boys on a scholarship considerably late in coming. 

His parents had been all too thrilled to send him off, as John had a habit of getting into fights at his old school. They made him promise nothing of the sort would happen at Monroe.

He wandered down halls that ached like old bones, surrounded by photos of classes that had come and gone before, all the way back to the 1920s. He would have kept walking, but then, he saw the glare of a stripped, white mattress and figured, “Ah, here we are.”

A pudgy boy with glasses sat on the edge of the bed opposite in the small room adorned with a few science fair ribbons and piles of textbooks. The boy stood and nodded. “You must be John Watson.”

“I am.” John set his few belongings on the floor and reached out his hand to shake.

“Mike Stamford,” he said as he took John’s hand and smiled. “I’m going to be a doctor.”

“Oh. Good.” John had no response. For the time being, he was going to be a senior at Monroe School for Boys. Beyond that, the young man was utterly clueless.

***

Stamford was kind enough—he seemed desperate for a new friend—to show John the grounds. They toured the many buildings of Monroe, surrounded by aged orange and red-tinted autumn trees that lovingly caressed rooftops and the edges of classroom windowpanes. There were buildings named for Monroe alums, like Ellis and Washington and Scripps, men long dead and forgotten everywhere else. 

There was the cafeteria and gymnasium: the two places John imagined he’d be spending most of his time. He asked Stamford about the rugby squad at Monroe, but the poor, pudgy scientist didn’t say much.

John was late in arriving to school, so the first day of class was already the following morn. After his tour, Stamford headed to lunch, but John wanted a moment of peace back in their shared quarters. Once there, he tossed his clothes into drawers and took a glance at the textbooks arranged on his desk with a little note on top that said, simply, “Watson.” 

He then reached between the covers of a book he’d brought along from home: Naked Café by William Burroughs. He opened the book to the center pages, where he found the photo of Alan, his summer fling, who’d broken up with John the moment Monroe was mentioned. 

He’d met Alan at a bonfire party in the countryside. The night had ended beer-soaked, the two boys wrestling and pulling at clothes in a haystack. Alan was smaller than John, blond, with warm, brown eyes. He was quiet and sweet but easily breakable, hence the breakup—Alan trying to protect himself before John could make up an excuse about distance or time, which he would have. John had had no intentions of sticking with Alan for the long haul.

Still, John missed him, but he supposed what better place to be than an entire campus surrounded by young men?


	2. Chapter 2

With Stamford’s help, John found his way to his morning classes. They seemed to have the same schedule. John suspected the school had done that on purpose, seeing that he and Stamford were roommates. Therefore, John was always on time and already had a friend. 

Around noon, they made their way to lunch, where John hoped to find the food edible. Considering the cost of attendance at Monroe, he expected nothing less.

The boys each grabbed a tray of spaghetti with meatballs, salad on the side. Stamford grabbed dessert and several dinner rolls, and they sat at a creaky, wooden table, polished by the hands, trays, and sweat of so many other boys before them. 

“So what do you think?” Stamford stuffed bread in his mouth.

John pushed the pasta around. “Oh, fine, fine. Teachers seem all right. Thanks for not letting me get lost.”

“No problem.” 

A few other boys moved in to sit around them, all similar to Stamford in looks: soft in the middle, glasses, pale skin that had never seen sun. John knew these were not his sort, but they were friendly. 

At his old school, John had been king of the jocks. He was built for rugby, football, lacrosse ... anything that involved physical contact and quick reflexes. He was broad in the shoulders and muscular. He was tan from a summer of swimming. He was, easily, quite handsome. Perhaps these kind, nerdy gents saw him as a shift in their school reputation, which was why they offered him hesitant smiles and pudding. 

Without having realized it, John Watson had become a cool kid.

The sound of loud laughter made John look away from his plate and toward another table, down the way. He recognized them immediately: his sort, the athletic boys who wore their uniforms in a rebellious mess: white button-downs untucked, ties crooked, navy blue trousers barely pressed. Yes, these were his people, handsome every one. 

John felt his stomach quiver with lust and joy.

Laughter increased as one of the boys stood up suddenly with a book in hand and held it high above his head. 

“It’s Seb again,” Stamford announced. “Bothering Sherlock.”

Seb was taller than John by probably about six inches. He was wide in the shoulders with short, brown hair; a square jaw; and a big, toothy grin. He continued waving the book over his head until another boy stood from the table, but this boy didn’t seem to fit with the jock consortium. 

He was shorter than Seb and probably half his weight. All John could see was the back of his head, covered in wild, shaggy bits of thick, black curl. The boy used a long, lanky arm to reach for the book in Seb’s hand, but Seb kept it out of his reach, laughing until the entire cafeteria watched.

“If you want rugby, Seb’s the team captain,” Stamford said with a downturn of his lips.

“He’s a right ass,” another boy said. “Won’t leave Sherlock alone.”

“Sherlock’s on the track team,” Stamford continued, “if you like running.” He pushed a meatball nervously around his plate, obviously worried John was about to leave the table and abandon him forever.

“Okay, thanks.” John made no move to rise, which seemed to relax the boys around him.

His eyes trailed back to what was now a public spectacle as Seb held Sherlock off with one, strong hand and kept his book in the air with the other. Finally, the boy Sherlock said something, and Seb’s laugh turned to a snake’s smile. He ceased the ruckus by handing Sherlock’s book back. Then, with everyone again consumed by food and first-day jitters, John watched as Seb and Sherlock left the cafeteria through a door in the back. From the dark-haired boy, he saw nothing but that wild hair and a flash of pale cheekbone.

John had a bad feeling. “Where are the …” He stood up. “Where’s the loo?”

Stamford nodded in the direction of Seb and Sherlock’s exit, which gave John the perfect excuse to follow.

He pushed through the door quietly and did his best to keep his fancy, new shoes from making a click. Didn’t take long for him to hear a familiar noise: that of lips sucking flesh. 

John peered around the corner, and in the dim, hallway light, found Seb snogging Sherlock senseless. The bigger, stronger boy had Sherlock smashed with his back against the wall. Seb’s large hands were fully immersed in Sherlock’s black hair, and he appeared to be trying to eat right through Sherlock’s mouth to the back of his skull. 

John watched one of Sherlock’s long, pale hands try to shove Seb back a bit, but Seb latched onto Sherlock’s wrist and pinned his hand against the wall. 

“Seb,” Sherlock breathed, not in a good way.

Seb’s hungry mouth moved to Sherlock’s neck until the boy hissed in painful protest. Then, Seb’s hand let go of Sherlock’s wrist long enough to wind its way down the front of Sherlock’s shirt, to the waist of his trousers, and then, even lower, until he pressed his palm roughly between Sherlock’s legs.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, his deep voice that of a grown man.

“Come on,” Seb purred against his ear. “Let’s go to my room and finally get rid of your stupid virginity.”

“Get off,” Sherlock growled.

Seb seemed to greatly enjoy the other’s boy’s protests, because he used his large body to pin Sherlock to the wall until he was literally trapped in Seb’s unwelcome embrace, which was when John took a step forward and said, firmly, “Think you’d better back off, mate.”

Both Seb and Sherlock looked shocked by his presence, but at least Seb took a rushed step backwards, leaving Sherlock frozen in place.

Seb took an aggressive lunge toward John and stopped inches from his face. “You never saw this,” he spat and quickly stomped away.

Sherlock was out of breath. While he rearranged his uniform, John really saw the boy for the first time. The contradiction of black hair and bright blue eyes made for a dashingly attractive picture, as did the high cheekbones, pale skin, and illicitly full, pink lips, still wet from Seb’s attack. John noticed Sherlock must have been younger, a sophomore or freshman even. John doubted the boy had yet to use a razor, but it was no wonder he ran track, with those long legs.

Sherlock sighed. “Aren’t you going to call me names? Puff? Faggot?” 

John was so utterly shocked by the deep, sensuous timbre of the boy’s voice, he didn’t respond.

“Well?”

“Oh.” John chuckled. “Only if it’s in jest since I’m a puff faggot, too.” He clasped his hands behind him and tried to look kind.

Sherlock appraised John, and John felt like a dissected frog beneath a microscope. Then, without a word of thanks, Sherlock swept past, leaving nothing but the scent of smoke and bar soap and an embarrassingly hard John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting alone in the library, John wrote “Sherlock Holmes” once in his chemistry notebook and then scribbled it out. He’d learned the boy’s full name from Stamford who said it with a sort of reverence. 

Turned out John had been right: Sherlock was younger than them, only a sophomore, but he was in all the senior science classes. Word was he would graduate early. 

He was indeed a star long-distance runner for Monroe’s track team, but to starry-eyed Stamford, he was nothing but a science prodigy. Teachers seemed to agree. Sherlock was in John’s chemistry class. The only reason John hadn’t noticed him their first day was because Sherlock hadn’t shown up due to a beginning of semester track practice. 

Now, every day in class, John was attacked by the sound of that brilliant, beautiful voice. He did everything he could to never, ever look at the other boy for fear of another accidental erection. But things were getting dire. It had been three weeks since beginning of school, and John wanted to get laid. No, needed to get laid. Alan had been erased from John’s mind; the only boy who existed for him anymore was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“You need help in chemistry.”

John almost yelped when the object of his fantasies sat down next to him at the empty library table. John didn’t look at Sherlock; he just stared at the notes before him and shook his head. “Nope. Fine.”

“You don’t even listen in class. You stare straight ahead and never write down anything important. You got a C-minus on the first pop quiz.”

All true, because John was too busy trying to not think about Sherlock Holmes. But still … “How did you—”

“You need help in chemistry,” Sherlock repeated.

John finally looked at him, and yes, he was everything John thought about at night only more, up close. “Fine. Yes.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s notebook and skimmed his notes, apparently not noticing the scrawled out letters of his own name. “Do you remember anything the teacher said or do I literally have to teach you everything?”

“I know some things about chemistry. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Of course you’re an idiot, but most people are.” Sherlock slapped John’s notebook back on the tabletop. “Thank you. For that thing you did.”

John thought back to the panicked sound of Sherlock’s voice beneath Seb’s onslaught. “Does he try that a lot?”

“Only when he gets me alone,” Sherlock said without a shred of sentiment.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you should tell someone.”

“So you know my name. Interesting.” He leaned back in his chair and studied John as he had weeks earlier in the dark hall. “Your family doesn’t have much money, do they? You’re here on a last chance scholarship. Get into a lot of fights at your last school, yes?”

John leaned away from Sherlock but not to create distance. He had yet to see Sherlock run the track, but he could tell that beneath the blue blazer and white shirt, there was nothing but muscle and skin. John looked away.

“So,” Sherlock said. “Chemistry.”

John looked back to find Sherlock thumbing through his textbook. He spent the afternoon hearing things again but for the first time. Everything sounded better coming from Sherlock’s mouth.

***

In the late afternoons, once classes were finished, Sherlock came to John and Stamford’s room to take John for his study session. Stamford practically groveled at Sherlock’s feet like a mouse looking for scraps of cheese. He didn’t even seem disappointed when John left, still high on the presence of the black-haired sophomore genius.

Sherlock didn’t like the library, as Seb sometimes studied there, although Seb had kept a careful distance ever since Sherlock had started tutoring John. John took pride in this.

Instead of the library, Sherlock took John to a rocky spot near the stream that ran beyond Monroe’s grounds. Fallen leaves blanketed the ground where they sat, and the air smelled of clove and Sherlock’s occasional cigarette.

Some afternoons, they studied. Other days, when there was no studying to be done, Sherlock sat and read books while John skipped rocks or, when Sherlock wasn’t looking, studied his new friend and found him perfect in every way.

One day, apropos of nothing, Sherlock put down his book and said, “You can kiss me if you want.”

John was on his back next to Sherlock watching clouds. “Why would I want to kiss you?”

He could almost hear Sherlock’s eye roll. “You stare at me constantly.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You just think I don’t notice. So if you want to …”

John looked up at Sherlock and received nothing but a blank stare. “Do you want me to kiss you, Sherlock?”

He shrugged.

John leaned up on one elbow. “I’m not like Seb. I’m not going to kiss you because I want to. I would kiss you if you wanted me to, and I don’t think you do.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re not like the other older boys.”

John rested his head back on damp leaves. “God, I hope not.”


	4. Chapter 4

With finals approaching, stress levels were high. The Monroe hallways simmered with bubbles of apprehension and fear. Boys ran around, dropping books and papers, headed for their next study sessions—except John Watson, who was, for the first time in his life, completely confident that he would ace every one of his exams, thanks to his new best friend.

Surprising his parents, John never did join the rugby team, simply because he didn’t want to be forced to spend time with Seb. He ran with Sherlock most mornings just to keep in shape, even though the younger boy always beat John by a half-mile at least. His legs were almost as quick as his brain.

John was actually on the way to the showers post-workout in the Monroe weights room when he heard a muffled cry in the locker room. He wouldn’t have panicked quite as much if he hadn’t recognized the voice: Sherlock.

John hurried around the corner and found his friend in a state of undress. His white shirt was open, torn at the top. His blazer had been pushed off one shoulder. Seb held him against an open locker by his throat as he unbuckled Sherlock’s pants with his other hand.

“Has he had you yet?” Seb growled. “That stupid puff John Watson.” He pushed his hand down Sherlock’s trousers.

“Seb, stop,” Sherlock begged. “Please.” His voice shook, which sent John into a state of seeing nothing but red.

John didn’t remember much after that beyond the feel of Seb’s face beneath his fist, followed by the sound of Sherlock’s voice, the feel of Sherlock’s hands dragging John off Seb’s body and then dragging him into out into the hall.

Once the wrath wore off, John realized he sat on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with Sherlock on his knees in front of him. He watched Sherlock clean his bloodstained fists with a damp cloth. 

“John?” Sherlock said.

John slid off the bed and wrapped Sherlock in a hug. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and smelled the familiar, comforting scent of smoke and soap. He felt Sherlock’s hands touch his back with hesitance before resting into John’s embrace.

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, John.”

John leaned back and took hold of Sherlock’s face. “I can’t bear the thought of that bloody bastard …” John shook his head. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Then, Sherlock smiled: one of those rare things like a solar eclipse. John had seen it maybe once, twice, before, so he took in the crookedness of Sherlock’s lips and memorized the white glint of his teeth.

“What?” he asked.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips against John’s. So taken with the touch of his mouth, John didn’t consider what Sherlock had just gone through. He instead put one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him closer. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, which was when his brain caught up with his hormones. 

John leaned back suddenly. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t … do we need to get a counselor? Report Seb?” 

John tried to stand, but Sherlock pulled him back down to the floor of what John realized had to be Sherlock’s room. Who else would own so many books about evolution, bees, and forensic science? He also realized Sherlock’s shirt was still torn open. 

The boy’s torso, as suspected, was nothing but a flat plane of hairless muscle. John wanted nothing more than to touch Sherlock, but he kept his hands to himself even as he kneeled between Sherlock’s long legs.

Sherlock put his hand on John’s chest. “Do you want to, John?”

“Want to what?”

John had learned that his best friend was never at a lack for words. He believed Sherlock would even argue God through the end of time. However, crouched together on the cold, wooden floor, Sherlock seemed at a loss. The expression on his face was one John had seen a hundred times: Sherlock working out a science problem. Except they weren’t in chemistry class.

Finally, he said, “I like you, John.”

“Well, I like you, too.”

“Would you … touch me?”

John’s eyes darted down to Sherlock’s bare chest. “Do you want me to?”

Sherlock nodded. “Very much so I think.”

John chuckled, stood, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. “Lay down,” he said, and once Sherlock was comfortable on his own soft, warm bed, John lay next to him on his side and brushed the dark hair from Sherlock’s forehead. His hand moved down to Sherlock’s chest, finally finding the skin his imagination so soundly sought.

He kissed Sherlock once on the lips as his hand mapped his chest and abdomen. Then, John’s lips found the soft skin of Sherlock’s neck and quickly concluded he could live there, set up a house on Sherlock’s collarbone and be surrounded by the expanse of the other boy’s skin.

Sherlock’s fingers dragged at John’s shoulders until he’d pulled John’s entire body on top of him. He took hold of John’s face and kissed him, hard and hungry. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s upper body and squeezed until the sound of a deep, breathy moan threatened to explode the ever-growing erection John had pressed against Sherlock’s bony hip. 

“God, Sherlock,” John muttered before burying his face in the young man’s hair.

He did a push-up above Sherlock and began kissing across his chest. John trailed kisses lower and lower. By then, Sherlock was a warm tangle of heavy breathing and damp skin, which was when John understood …

“Sherlock. Have you ever done this before?”

He opened his bright eyes and looked down. “No.”

“Christ …”

Sherlock leaned up on his elbows. “Does that disappoint you?”

John tried not to allow his chuckle to turn to a guffaw, but really? He ran his thumbs over the edges of Sherlock’s hips. “There is nothing that I want more than to be your first, you idiot. But I don’t want to rush anything. I could see myself falling desperately in love here, and I don’t want to muck things up.”

“Love isn’t real,” Sherlock said, deadpan, before pulling John down by the lapel of his blazer for another open-mouthed kiss that threatened to set John’s eyebrows on fire. 

John pushed Sherlock back onto his pillow with a smile. When he hesitated to unbuckle Sherlock’s trousers, the younger man rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, get on with it,” which only made John smile some more.

John was proud of his well-practiced oral technique, and Sherlock only confirmed his skill. Yes, Sherlock had never felt something quite like that before, but his incoherent mutterings and clenched muscles told John he did something very, very right. In fact, just feeling Sherlock tremble beneath him was enough to make John’s head spin. When Sherlock came with the grunt of John’s name, John was the one seeing spots.

The next step was unclear. Sherlock lay there, spent and lovely in the afternoon sun, but John needed release. He wondered if he should wank off in the bathroom or ask his best mate for some assistance. It wouldn’t take much—just Sherlock’s hand on his cock, probably, with Sherlock’s lips on his mouth. 

John waited and pressed kisses against Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. After a few silent minutes, Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he looked at John. 

“That was quite exceptional,” he said. “No wonder other boys are so keen to get a grab.”

John ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “That was just the start. You’ve no idea what more I can do to you. I bet I can make you forget entire math equations.”

Sherlock chuckled but then became serious. “I don’t know what you need.”

“I think a hand would do for now. If that’s all right.”

“A hand?”

John took Sherlock’s hand and guided it down to the front of his trousers where he bulged with months of longing. As soon as he felt the merest brush of Sherlock’s fingers, John’s eyes closed tight.

“Oh,” Sherlock said and unzipped John’s fly with the enthusiasm he usually reserved for the classroom. 

Of course those long fingers felt wonderful, but John wanted more. He opened his eyes and stared at the boy before him who had that usual look about him: the look of careful study. Sherlock moved his hand and looked to study John’s ever tick and twitch. John wasn’t surprised. Sherlock was, after all, a scientist and keen observer. 

But John needed more.

He first put his mouth on Sherlock’s, but that wasn’t it; no, he knew he wanted to look at Sherlock, so John put his hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and studied his friend, now lover. John, who’d loved so many boys in the past, had never wanted to worship someone like this. His eyes raked over Sherlock’s curls, into those blue, blue eyes. His gaze wisped down Sherlock’s cheekbones and pale skin, but it was his mouth that finally did it: parted slightly, panting breaths. Seeing Sherlock’s mouth gave John his much-awaited, much-deserved moment of frantic pleasure, which, he noticed, made his partner smile.

Both exhausted, they tangled together down the center of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock’s long appendages covered John, and John was content to bury his nose in Sherlock’s hair as he began the slow descent into a peaceful doze.

Before he could fall asleep, though, Sherlock’s voice vibrated him to life. “Was I all right?”

“Hmm?”

“Did I do it right?” He pulled closer as if he feared the answer.

“You’re bloody brilliant. Everything about you. And to be perfectly frank, I get turned on just watching you read the paper at breakfast.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“Oh,” John said.

“So you still want to be my friend, John?”

“No. I’m your bloody boyfriend, and I’ll shout it to every rafter in this drafty, old posh place.”

Sherlock buried his face against John’s chest and nuzzled his nose into John’s now wrinkled shirt. “All right,” he said and was snoring in seconds.

“All right.” John smiled and played with the errant curls stuck with sweat to Sherlock’s neck. “More than all right,” he said and followed a lonely, beautiful boy into his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)!


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